


In Which Some Things are Left Unsaid

by ironicalei6h



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: But mostly fluff, Christmas, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Return fic, and sherlock gets to be ignored for five minutes, i actually love this omg, i wrote it as pre-slash buuuuuuuut you can say bromance if that floats your boat, idek man, implied pre-slash, in which john is a little unsure of his sanity, its all fluff if you have the right mindset ok, kind of, kind of angsty i guess, wow this is a lot shorter than i thought it was ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-25 06:16:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/635979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironicalei6h/pseuds/ironicalei6h
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was Christmas Eve, and snowing. His cheeks were warm with the remains of his fifth pint, and he grimaced down at the white-flecked sidewalk. Right. He needed to walk home, for sure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Some Things are Left Unsaid

**Author's Note:**

> A short little Return fic written for my darling Hayley-boo. This was to somewhat alleviate her Reichenfeels, not to mention act as her Christmas present. I hope you guys likeeeeeee. Now read!

            It was Christmas Eve, and snowing. John Watson had spent the evening at his local down the street with Greg and Mike. His cheeks were warm with the remains of his fifth pint, and he grimaced down at the white-flecked sidewalk. Right. He needed to walk home, for sure. So John did, hands shoved in his pockets as he dodged the few stragglers hanging about, despite the holiday. The cold was decidedly good for his drunken mind, clearing it just the slightest, if not wholly. He ignored the snow which fell on his shoulders and dug the keys to his flat out of his pocket. John’d moved out of 221b fourteen months ago; he still saw Ms Hudson, of course—she came over for tea now and again, and sometimes he dropped by the place to catch up. John hadn’t allowed himself to look up the staircase yet.

            The door opened, sticking a bit before giving to the force of John’s shoulder against the wood. “Bloody door,” he grumbled, frowning at the keys as he dropped them into the bowl on the small table behind the door. “Gotta get that fi—”

            Sitting on his sofa was a ghost. Maybe not a ghost. Maybe John was going crazy again. Maybe he was seeing things. _Ella did say you were drowning yourself in grief_ , John reminded himself. His awfully misguided therapist had suggested he leave Baker Street. Despite the fact that he had long ago decided Ella’s prognoses were unadulterated horseshit at best, John hadn’t yet been able to bring himself to go begging back to Ms Hudson so he could curl up in a dead man’s bed and cry himself to sleep every night. He liked to suppose that he was past that now.

            He walked through the sitting room, deciding that ignoring the clear signs of his insanity was the best course of action. John went to the kitchen, filled the kettle with water and put it on the stove. He started the faulty eye with a match and watched the flames lick the bottom of the ceramic pot.

            “John.” The Illusion had followed John into the kitchen and stood behind him, was talking to him, leaning against John’s kitchen counter as if it had the right. John continued to ignore it. He picked out a box of plain breakfast tea, jumping only slightly when the whistle on the kettle went off. The Illusion stood silently in the doorway. Automatically, shamefully, John set out two cups and steeped both.

            “John,” it said again, moving to the counter beside him. _Stop following me_ , John wanted to say, but he figured it was useless at that point. He was a bit far gone, wasn’t he? “You won’t look at me. Why aren’t you looking at me?” the Illusion spoke again, and John frowned down at the teacups. _Oh, stuff it, you arrogant sod._ Sherlock never did know when to shut up. But of course, this wasn’t really Sherlock. John put the kettle back on the stove with a bit more force than was strictly necessary.

            “Stop it, _honestly_ ,” the Illusion said, mild hysteria creeping into the voice, a hand reaching out to touch John’s arm. He knew it wouldn’t touch him, though. It couldn’t. He picked up his tea, leaving one on the counter, and pushed away from the cupboards, intending to stay in the sitting room and watch crap telly until he was at least halfway properly sober again. But the Illusion couldn’t touch him. It would either stop, or go right through him, because that was how illusions wor—

            A heavy weight on John’s arm stopped him. Tea spilled into his sleeve, but he ignored that. Their eyes locked, and the teacup dropped. Pieces of porcelain scattered across his kitchen floor, but John ignored that, too. Instead, he clumsily threw his arms around the taller man’s shoulders; Sherlock hesitated before moving his arms to wrap around him, as well. Respectively, they relished the almost-three years’ worth of what they’d been missing—the scratchy tweed of a heavy overcoat, the softest of eleven jumpers in one’s wardrobe, the bony shoulders, the scent of the usual mediocre-quality shampoo.

The moment didn’t last long. Being a do-or-die Englishman who’d staved off crippling depression by the skin of his teeth for almost-three years, John Watson punched a very-much-so-alive Sherlock Holmes right in one of those Goddamn cheekbones. He swore as he shook his hand out, turning away from Sherlock and taking a deep breath, eyes closed. Definitely alive. Fuck _._ _Fuck_. Fuckity fuck _fuck_ , God _damn_. “Sher—no, what? _What_? No,” John said, his voice elevating until he was nearly shouting. “What the bleeding hell d’you think—”

            John was cut off by Sherlock’s hand closing over his mouth. They stood like that, silent, for a few minutes, until finally, Sherlock’s tense body seemed to relax a little bit. “All right?”

            The hand fell from John’s face. He stared. “ _No_.” John finally seemed to register the shards of broken teacup around their feet because he sighed and picked up the other from the counter. “Why am I not surprised?” he muttered darkly, not sure if he wanted the question answered or not. In fact, he was fairly sure he had the answer already. _It's just Sherlock all over._

            No matter the answer to John’s rhetorical question, Sherlock, for once, did not reply; he simply pulled away and licked his lips, looking equal parts rapturous and uncomfortable. John shamelessly watched, figuring if Sherlock was there for any amount of time, he had a right, didn’t he? John was going to bloody well _stalk_ , if he wanted to. “Well,” John said, raising his eyebrows. “Out with it, then.”

            “I missed you?” Sherlock said, sounding supremely awkward.

            John’s eyes narrowed, and his grip on the teacup tightened. He really should sweep up the floor before one of them cut themselves on the shards. “Don’t make me punch you again.”

            Sherlock sighed, rolled his eyes irately—as if he had the right, the _git_ —and glanced in the direction of John’s main room. “Can we at least sit down for this conversation? It’s a bit lengthy, and if you don’t mind my pointing it out, your limp’s returned, and I haven’t the patience to fix it tonight. You’re cross. I don’t particularly fancy the thought of doing this when you’re in a mood _and_ in pain.” The two men had an unofficial stare-down. Sherlock won; they relocated to the sitting room.

            Sherlock spent a good bit of time trying to decide what to tell John and what _not_ to tell John. He ran through his numerous experiences, narrated the abridged versions in his mind, and spewed them out automatically, no emotion attached. John listened in a similar fashion, jaw set, hands still tightly gripping the cup over his left knee. And suddenly Sherlock couldn’t find anything more to say; there were no more anecdotes that seemed even remotely interesting enough for him to relay to John, none that seemed to quell the fearsome temper rising within him. John was angry at Sherlock, and that simply wouldn’t do.

            “I’m going to bed. You’re welcome to the airbed, if you’ve not already gone to see Ms Hudson. Doubtful you haven’t, but the bed’s here just the same,” John said tiredly, after the silence became too much; the air was thick with you’re-supposed-to-be-cheerful-because-c’mon-it’s-christmas and oh-my-god-okay-you’re-not-dead-wow, and John was suffocating in the words that neither of them were saying.

_It was unutterably tiresome without you. Frustratingly dull._

_I haven’t had more than three hours’ sleep a night in almost three years._

_I vomited during a chase once. I’d forgotten to eat for days; you weren’t there to remind me._

_I had to quit the surgery. Sarah, at least, understood._

_I tried to delete everything of London before I left, to make it a clean slate._

_I slept in your bed for over six months._

_I didn’t succeed in deleting everything._

_That’s about how long your bed still smelled like those godawful chemicals._

_You still purse your lips when you’re irritated._

_Those godawful chemicals reminded me of you._

           John and Sherlock looked at each other from across the room, the unspoken words still floating somewhere in the air between the sofa and the lone armchair by the wall; the corners of their mouths turned up just the slightest, and a silent agreement was made that the rest of these stories could be told later. “The airbed?” Sherlock asked, finally, clearing his throat and looking away.

           “In the hall cupboard,” John said benevolently, turning away. His bedroom door shut softly behind him, but it didn’t completely muffle the _merry Christmas._


End file.
